When the golden dragon egg Noa was hatching for the earl cracked, every distinguished guest in the hall rose to their feet.
But what crawled out was a dusty gray hatchling, with wings smaller than a rag.
It couldn't breathe holy fire or recognize noble crests. When it got hungry, it swallowed the earl's gold buttons in one gulp.
The earl wanted to burn the batch of "rejects."
Noa pulled her sleeve out of the little thing's mouth and, while she was at it, laid her resignation on the table.
"We can settle the bill. I'll take the living ones."
Six years of savings bought her a gray hatchling, two dragon eggs, a broken incubator, and a commission to manage a patch of wasteland in the northern frontier. She thought the hardest part would be keeping the hatchling alive. But when she arrived, she discovered that the "uninhabited wilderness" on the map was home to a whole lot of people who had no intention of leaving.
The little gray dragon that couldn't breathe fire bit a window nail crooked, while the newly hatched green dragon climbed up high. A hermit ranger urged her to leave while the road was still passable. The village's fiercest old woman called the dragons useless gluttons while sewing blankets for the incubator.
The winter tide was coming. They lacked food, fire, and even a way out.
Noa didn't know how to be a lord. She only knew that hungry hatchlings needed feeding, and people who wanted to stay needed a reason to do so.
Later, caravans crossed the mountain pass seeking warm glaze fired in dragon kilns. The capital sent someone to recruit the gray dragon they had once planned to burn, and dragons began migrating from beyond the snowy range.
Only then did they realize that a small, unconventional territory had sprung up in the northern frontier.
Dragons are not for sale here.
If you want to do business, wipe the snow off your boots first. Noa just finished mopping.
